Bob sat staring at his computer screen. Instead of helping his detective, Hawk Malone, unravel the clues to the mysterious poisoning of Arthur Blackwell, he kept turning his own situation over and over in his mind. How, exactly, had he gotten into this mess? Where had he gone wrong?

Nowhere. He didn't deserve this. What he deserved was a medal for accompanying Joy to her big, chaotic family gatherings every year. Year in, year out, he endured teasing about his writing...So, who are you murdering now, Bob? Hey, I've got this boss...and the helpful critiques...I think you should have made the car mechanic the murderer. It seemed to me like he had the best motive, but no one would have suspected him. I mean, I didn't, and isn't it the person you least suspect who does the murder? And then there was always someone who had a plan. Bob, I've got a great idea for a book. You could write it and we could split the money. That was easily shrugged off, and when you were a writer it pretty much went with the territory. And it was only a small part of a very long afternoon. It was the chaos that nearly short-circuited him every year. Kids running everywhere like so many accidents waiting to happen. No one watched their children at these things. He couldn't believe n.o.body had broken their arm or at least some valuable knickknack yet. As out of control as it all was, someone sure should have. And the noise level; every year it rose higher.

Joy's family seemed to thrive on that sort of thing. The wilder a party got, the more they liked it. From what he could tell, her house had had a revolving front door when she and her brothers were growing up-people always coming and going, tons of company, big, loud parties. It was a way of life for the Johnsons.

But it wasn't for his family. His house had been quiet. He couldn't remember his parents having much company, and his brother, the chess club king, didn't exactly throw wild parties. Bob had spent a lot of time in his room with his nose in a book or in front of the TV as a kid, and that had been fine with him. As a teenager, he and his two best friends mostly went hiking or cruised around in their cars, listening to music and trying to pick up girls. No big, wild parties, no chaos.

Christmas at his house had been pretty quiet, too-the ritual of present opening in the morning, a dinner with just the four of them, and maybe a pair of grandparents or a stray aunt and uncle, followed by a holiday movie like White Christmas on TV afterward. Then everyone scattered to do his own thing.

So far in his writing career Bob had solved fourteen mysteries. But the workings of his wife's mind and that of her family's remained the greatest unsolved mystery of all. Why did they think everyone should be like them? And why, after all these years, did it still bother Joy that he wasn't? She'd known what he was like when she married him.

And he'd known what she was like too, came the thought. He'd loved her sense of fun and her enthusiasm for life. But somehow, he'd concluded that when she chose him she chose his lifestyle, too. But she hadn't. Even though he'd gone along with all her ideas on just how Christmas should be done, it simply hadn't been enough for her. He wasn't enough for her.

He rubbed his aching forehead. Now she was making his shortcomings public. So far he'd enjoyed a fairly good relationship with the press: good reviews, some nice articles, friendly interviews with the local paper. His sales were gaining on the big boys like Tom Clancy and John Grisham, and his publicist billed him as the mild-mannered master of murder and mayhem. How was he going to be billed if news of his wife's Christmas strike got out? He'd be Bob Humbug, killer of Christmas. Would that boost sales? It sure wouldn't do much for public relations here where he lived, of that much he was certain.

The doorbell rang and he gave a start. Oh, no. The nightmare before Christmas was beginning.

A herd of demented Sugarplum Fairies started dancing in Joy's stomach as she went to answer the door. Maybe this was a bad idea.

But then she walked past her poor, handicapped tree and irritation took over, sending the fairies scampering. How many men all over this town, all over America even, needed to learn to become active partic.i.p.ants in their families' lives rather than spectators who showed up on Christmas morning? This wasn't a strike, it was a cause.

By the time she got to the front door, her irritation had grown into righteous anger. She practically yanked the door open, making the man and woman on the front step jump.

The woman looked about Melia's age, somewhere in her twenties. Her chestnut hair sported the latest cut and her clothes looked Vogue hip. Everything about her said I'm young and I have time to work at looking this good because I'm free-no husband to dump the duties of Christmas on me. The man standing in back of her didn't look much older. He was dressed in jeans and a jacket, and was holding a camera.

Behind them, the sky provided a gray backdrop. It looked like the snow flurries the weatherman had predicted would be coming soon.

"I'm Rosemary Charles," said the young woman. "This is Rick Daniels, our photographer. Thanks for agreeing to see us."

"No problem," Joy said. She stepped aside and motioned them in.

They came into the front hall of Joy's Victorian, and their presence seemed to fill the house. What should she do now? She'd never entertained the media before.

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked as she hung their coats on the oak coat tree. Everything went better with coffee. Too bad she didn't have any home-baked cookies to offer them.

The photographer looked hopeful, but Rosemary Charles shook her head. "No, we're fine. But thanks."

"Well, come on into the living room," Joy said.

That might have been a mistake. "Whoa," said the photographer, gawking at her tree.

Rosemary Charles stopped short at the sight it. "I see you've already got your tree up," she said diplomatically.

Joy felt herself blushing. The tree looked worse than any Charlie Brown tree. It was an embarra.s.sment to treehood. "My husband did it." She sounded like a tattletale. Great way to start an interview.

Rosemary perched on the edge of Joy's sofa and whipped out a small tablet. "So, you're on strike and he's doing everything?"

"Something like that," Joy said.

"And how did this come about?" Rosemary Charles wanted to know.

Joy looked at the tree and squirmed. There it stood, the symbol of her and Bob on display for the whole world to see, everything connected but not quite right. "Are you sure I can't get you something to drink?" She could sure use a drink, preferably one that was spiked.

"Oh, no. We're fine," said Rosemary Charles. She sat watching Joy, pen poised.

Joy cleared her throat. "Well, my friends and I got talking about how women do most of the work to make the holidays happen." So far so good, but now she wasn't sure what to say next.

Rosemary Charles nodded encouragingly as she wrote.

Joy eased further into the conversation, like a nervous ice skater entering the rink. "And sometimes the men in our lives don't really appreciate what we do. They don't see the importance of it. They just sort of take it all for granted. They take us for granted." She stopped her sentence, but in her head, she was on a roll. They think it's a waste of time and they don't want to be bothered, which translates into not wanting to be bothered with us. They don't value what we value. They complain or belittle it. They don't care, and that translates into not caring about us.

That was it in a nutsh.e.l.l, she realized. Bob didn't care enough to really make an effort for her. Oh, he came to the annual family holiday gatherings, but just once she'd like him to make an effort and really be there, partic.i.p.ate instead of sitting on the outside looking in with an impatient frown.

"Your husband, he's Bob Robertson the mystery writer, right?" asked Rosemary Charles.

Joy nodded. Here was the part Bob had dreaded. For just a moment she couldn't help wondering if publicly pillorying him was going to make him any fonder of the holiday festivities.

"And what does he think of this?"

Now Joy was really stumped. Part of her wanted to blurt, "He's a Grinch. What do you think he thinks?" But she didn't. Bob could be a turkey this time of year, but he was her turkey and she didn't want to roast him too badly. "I guess you'd have to ask him."

That response might have been a mistake. Rosemary Charles suddenly looked like a puppy that had been promised an entire bag of doggy treats. "Is he home? Can we talk to him?"

As if on cue, Bob came sauntering into the living room. How convenient. He had to have been lurking just down the hall, eavesdropping.

"Mr. Robertson?" The young reporter stood and moved to shake hands with Bob. "I'm a big fan of yours. In fact, I was at your last book signing."

Bob hated book signings. All that schmoozing with the public was painful for him, and Joy usually attended the events with him, chatting with readers and running interference between him and his most ardent fans.

But he was great one-on-one. He also knew how to put up a friendly facade. He smiled for the reporter. "Did you enjoy the book?"

"Oh, yes, it was great. Um, do you mind giving us a statement for this article?"

"No, I guess not."

Joy stared at him, shocked. What happened to not talking to the press?

"What do you think of your wife's strike?"

"It could be worse. She could be on strike for higher wages."

Bob Humbug does Bob Hope. Ha, ha, ha.

"What do you think about your wife's theory that women do it all this time of year and the men do nothing?"

Had she said that exactly? What had she said? And, more important, what was this article going to say?

"I can only speak for my own household," Bob said diplomatically. "My wife does a lot."

Well, that was very kind. Joy waited to see if he'd add, "Who needs it?" He didn't, the big coward.

"So are you going to pick up the slack while she's on strike, and do you think you'll be able to do everything she does?" asked Rosemary Charles, scribbling in her pad.

"Not everything," Bob said. "Christmas will probably look a little different this year."

Yeah, bleak.

"But I'm not sure that's a bad thing," Bob continued. "I think most men would appreciate seeing the holiday simplified."

"So, if all the wives in Holly went on strike, how do you think the men would do?" Rosemary asked.

"I think they'd do fine."

"You're a real sport, Mr. Robertson," said Rosemary Charles. "Especially considering the fact that your wife is going to probably be the hero of every woman in town."

If Joy was the hero, that left only one person for the villain. Bob's polite smile did a slow fade.

"Well, then," said Rosemary Charles briskly. "How about a picture of you two in front of the tree? Could we do that?"

This disaster of a tree would be in the paper? Joy looked at the reporter in horror.

Bob surveyed his masterpiece of mess, and then a sly grin grew on his face. Joy could see the wheels turning. Here was petty revenge served up on a platter, and an unwritten message to any potential strikers. Go ahead, strike. But this is what your Christmas will look like.

"Okay. Come on, hon." He held out a hand to her. He was enjoying this, the sicko! They got in front of the tree and he pulled her close to his side.

"Maybe we should each stand on one side of the tree," Joy said, pulling away. "So you can see it better."

"Oh, good idea," agreed the reporter.

"Yeah, that works," said Rick, the photographer. Joy and Bob posed on opposite sides of the tree and he aimed the camera and snapped.

"Well, thanks. I guess that does it," Rosemary Charles said when Rick had finished. "And who else is involved in this strike besides..." She consulted her tablet. "Sharon Benedict?"

Joy gave her Laura's and Kay's names and numbers; then Rosemary and the photographer collected their coats and departed.

As soon as the door was shut, Joy turned to Bob. "I thought you weren't available for comment."

"I decided I'd better come out and defend myself. Things get twisted when you only hear one side of a story."

"And speaking of twisted." She pointed to the tree. "That monster you created is going to be in the paper."

"I created it, huh? Well, maybe it will inspire some of the guys who read the article."

She narrowed her eyes. "Cute, Bob. I know what you're up to. If your wife tries to pull anything just sabotage her with an ugly tree, and G.o.d knows what else. That's the plan, isn't it?"

Another shrug. "It's done, isn't it? And it's not all that bad. Not how you'd do it maybe, but you abdicated so I'm afraid you have to take what you get."

This was like an old I Love Lucy show where Lucy set out to teach Ricky a lesson and Ricky countered with his own strategy. Only this was real life and Joy was not laughing.

She folded her arms across her chest. "So, this is the best you can do. This is how Christmas will look with Bob in charge? That's your reputation on the line, your work on display in the paper for everyone in town to see."

He eyed the tree. "And I stand by my work," he said, giving her a playful grin and putting his arms around her. "Come on, hon," he coaxed, "give up. You know you enjoy doing all this stuff. Why deprive yourself of the fun?"

"You won't find doing things by myself and dragging my husband through the holidays listed under fun in my dictionary," Joy informed him. "I swear, you've got Grinch blood running through your veins."

"Maybe I do, but don't be surprised when all the men here in Whoville put up a statue in my honor."

Joy shook her head at him. "Okay, fine. Be that way. This is war now."

He gave her his little-boy-in-trouble look, the one with the downturned mouth and sad puppy eyes that almost always got him off the hook. "I'd rather make love than war. Can't we sign a peace treaty?"

"No peace for you this season," she said sternly. "But I tell you what. We'll make the bedroom neutral territory. What do you say to that idea?"

Bob grinned. "G.o.d bless us, every one." He waggled his eyebrows at her. "How about a quick trip to the DMZ?"

The phone rang and Joy picked it up, saying, "Sorry, this could be a call from one of my generals. I'll have to take it."

The look on Bob's face told her what he thought of her priorities. "Bah, humbug," he muttered and left for his office, probably to plan some strategy of his own.

"Merry Christmas," Joy sang into the phone just to irritate him.

"Same to you, sugar," said Sharon. "I'm not getting you in the middle of anything, am I?"

In another couple of minutes she would have been. "No. I can talk."

"I just called to warn you that you're about to become famous. I hope you don't mind, but I went ahead and called the newspaper like we talked about doing the other night."

"Actually, the reporter and photographer were just here," Joy said.

Sharon let out a low whistle. "They sure didn't let any gra.s.s grow under their feet, did they? How'd it go?"

"Let's just say that a line has been drawn in the snow," said Joy.

"That doesn't sound good. I guess I should have checked with you first, but, honestly, I was so mad at Pete I couldn't see straight, and when I'm riled up I just have to do something. Let me tell you, when I meet with that reporter she's going to get an earful."

Oh, dear. "So, how did Pete react? Was he mad?"

"Worse than that. He laughed at me. He was actually glad I'm not doing anything. Let me tell you, that boy is so deep in the doghouse even the fleas can't find him."

"Why are men so difficult?" Joy said with a sigh.

"Because they're men, honey."

Joy could hear little boys whooping in the background.

"You boys stop that right now," Sharon scolded. "Someone's going to get hurt."